The Doll's Life
by Lacagelle973
Summary: Who would have thought a summer job on Coney Island could lead to the terrifying obsession of a madman? Certainly not Christine Daae.
1. Prologue

_Thump_. _Thump. Thump. _

I quiver as I hear those dreaded footsteps approaching from the house. _Please don't let him find me, please don't let him find me…_

"Christine," he calls sweetly. "Christine...come out, come out wherever you are- I know you enjoy playing your little games, do you not? Oh, but my dear, you should know by now that I will never deny you a request! We will always play whatever game your sweet heart desires in my home! But only if you come out like a good girl…."

I know that underneath his beautiful, kind tone he is really hiding the fury I will surely see (and probably feel) if I reveal myself from my hiding spot. I breathe in sharply as I watch his feet come towards me in the same rhythm as the heartbeat that is quickly accelerating in my chest. Inwardly, I curse myself. If I didn't agree to live with my aunt for the summer, none of this would have happened…

"Christine." My name rolls off his tongue. He is using that voice- the one which haunted my thoughts for so long. It is intoxicating and hypnotic in turn. I feel it swirl around me, and for a moment, I am lost in its enticing sound.

"My patience is wearing thin." Hearing this makes me snap out from under his spell. Do not make Erik angry, for he does not wish to harm his Christine, he loves her too much….." His feet stop directly in front of my face and for one heart-stopping second I truly think he is going to bend down and claim his prize. After a moment, he abruptly turns and continues his search.

What he thinks is love is what normal people call obsession.

"Christine_…." _His footsteps are fading as he goes off in another direction. I count the seconds under my breath. "One…two…three….four….."

The dull _thumps _are no longer within earshot. I quickly and quietly jump up from under the planks of scrap wood that I had taken refuge in and run down the opposite tunnel that is next to the little house. Some of the wood tumbles, but it's too late for me to go back and fix them.

Surely, he is too far away that he could have heard them fall…

I continue to run. The candelabras that align the walls flicker as they meet the rush of air as I go past, casting eerie shadows along the floor. It's freezing, but if being cold is the price of my freedom, I'll take it. Hearing the rats screeching gives me all the more reason to run faster than ever.

Finally, I reach the end of the tunnel- only to find five entrances that lead off in different directions. Who would have thought this maze of tunnels was directly under the Coney Island boardwalk?

"What _is _this place?" I mutter to myself. Suddenly, I pause as I hear something behind me. The steady footsteps of a hunter knowing that his prey is near.

"You cannot hide forever_._"

Horrified, I choose the tunnel that leads down the center and follow it, not caring that the tunnel was pitch black, musky and full of ankle-deep water. I'm so close to my freedom that I can taste it!

Or so I thought. It's just a dead end.

And the footsteps are coming nearer still.

Desperately, I try to find a ladder, a trick brick- anything to just get me away from this madman! I sob into the wall. Even after all I did to escape that beautiful prison, he still manages to wins.

The footsteps stop right behind me. After a moment, I feel a cold hand grab my shoulder and force me around. Those eyes- those horrible, burning eyes are filled with rage.

And yet so are mine.

"Why won't you let me go?" I scream.

His hand releases my shoulder only to slowly trace the length of my arm. It travels back upwards in the same manner, only to go over my shoulder and wrap his fingers tightly around my neck. He suddenly pushes me against the wall with his other hand gripping my wrist. I struggle, but his body weight is keeping me down.

"Because," he breathes into my ear. "Erik never lets go of something that is rightfully his."


	2. Chapter 1

Christine Daae looked over the railing and down onto the beach, her long brown hair hanging over the ledge. It was a beautiful summer's day, with the sun's glares bouncing off the ocean, the waves rolling gently onto the shore. A few beachgoers were walking towards the water, their hands getting weighed down by their various towels, shovels, and bags. Christine found herself wishing that she was going to enjoy a day at the beach instead of finding a summer job.

She checked her wrist watch. _10:00 A.M. _glared back at her. The watch had been an heirloom that was passed down in the family for many generations. Christine's father said that every member of the Daae family who held possession of the watch would receive the blessing of the Angel of Music once in their lifetime.

He died two weeks later. The Angel of Music was too late for him.

Forcing herself to turn away from the beach, Christine turned and saw the Coney Island Boardwalk come to life. Shopkeepers emerged from their apartments and walked yawning down the stairs to unlock their doors. Smells from the various bakeries and hot dog vendors started wafting through the air. An organ grinder started playing his music, a monkey in a little tutu dancing to the beat. The various rides were started creaking and groaning as the attendants started them up, as if they took on a life of their own.

It was quite the wonderland.

Now if only she was hired.

~0~

"I'm sorry!" The cheerful owner of the Fudge Shop hurriedly ushered Christine outside. "We're not hiring at this time. But I wish you the best of luck, dearie!"

The door slammed shut.

"Er- thank you." Christine said softly. At least the lady took some time to speak with her. The last place she tried the owner threw her out as soon as he saw she was a girl. For four hours, Christine had walked around the Boardwalk to every shop, vendor and game booth to see if anyone was hiring people for jobs. Unfortunately for her, she was either too young, too inexperienced, or in the case of the tattoo parlor, too pretty.

The sun was now high overhead, causing the nails on the boardwalk to sparkle. A couple of seagulls were calling to each other from the roofs of the buildings. Christine wiped a hand to her sweaty brow.

"_I need a break," _she thought. She made her way over to the picnic area and looked around for a seat. As it was lunchtime, the Boardwalk became crowded with greedy people who were anxious to fill their stomachs with as many hot dogs, funnel cakes and diet sodas their bodies desired. It was like feeding time at the zoo.

"Hey, watch it!" a man with a Brooklyn accent yelled at Christine. "You almost made me drop my nachos!"

"I'm sorry!" Christine apologized, staggering haphazardly between a few chairs. "Excuse me!"

"Stupid girl," the man muttered, turning back to his greasy food. She pretended not to hear the man's insult and continued her search. After a few minutes, Christine was able to secure a space on a wooden bench next to a hot dog stand.

"Finally," she said, plopping herself down.

"Good job on finding a seat," a voice said. Christine looked around the stand and saw a young man with sandy brown hair and a yellow and red checkered shirt standing behind the counter. He was smiling at her.

"Does it always get this crazy?" she asked.

"This?" he gestured his hand towards the crowd. "Honey, this isn't even the worst of it. Wait until school gets out- then you have all those bratty kids running around, dropping food everywhere, screaming that they lost their balloons on some ride they went on- then you'll know the meaning of a madhouse."

"I can only imagine," Christine said.

"You from around here?" the young man asked.

"No, actually. I'm from Boston."

"Boston? Really? I've been there a few times. Nice place."

"Have you?"

"Well, not really- I just like to sound intelligent and cultured." The young man chuckled. "Don't judge me."

"Not at all," Christine said.

"So what brings you to Coney Island, the glorious land of opportunity?" He had a very easy air around him, relaxed and comfortable. Christine found herself enjoying this man's company.

"I'm actually living with my aunt for the summer." Christine pointed towards the beach. "She lives in one of those houses."

"Right on the shore? You're in for a real treat. Wait till you see the sun rise in the mornings- _magnifico! _And then the way the moon shines over the ocean at night? _Stupendo_!" His hands flourished when saying these words with an over the top Italian accent.

Christine laughed. "_Brava!" _she played along applauded him on his accent. His enthusiasm was contagious.

The man bowed deeply, his brown eyes laughing. "What do they call you, kid?"

"I'm Christine. Christine Daae."

"The name's Jordan." They shook hands.

"Would you like a hot dog?" he asked her. "My treat. C'mon, you can't say you've experienced Coney Island without tasting your first hot dog, can you?"

"I suppose not," Christine said with a smile. "Can you do that? Give me a free hot dog?"

"No one needs to know," Jordan winked. He set a sizzling hot dog in a long bun, smothered it in ketchup and handed it to Christine. She bit down.

"What did I tell you? Amazing, right?"

"This is the best hot dog I've ever eaten," she said, her mouth full. She wolfed the food down in two bites.

"Slow down there, slick, or one would guess that you haven't eaten in two whole months," Jordan said, giving her a napkin.

"I'm so sorry!" Christine said, wiping her hands. "I just wanted to eat it quickly so I could continue my search."

"Search?"

"Job hunting," Christine explained.

"They don't often hire young people for the jobs on the boardwalk," Jordan explained. "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Then they definitely won't hire you. The youngest you can be to work here is twenty-seven, maybe twenty-five? It's a strange age." He frowned, thinking. "I was lucky, though. My boss hired me, even though I'm only twenty-four."

"Who's your boss? Does he run the food stands?"

"What, this?" Jordan gestured down to his yellow and red uniform. "I only do this to make some extra money. My real job is on the other side of the Boardwalk at this new amusement park that just opened."

"What's it called?"

"Phantasma." Jordan's voice lowered to little more than a whisper. "It's really one of the creepiest places you're ever going to see or experience. Think of it as the dark side of the Boardwalk- the dangerous side. The place where your mind can play the most evil tricks on you, and you see things that you only thought existed in your nightmares. It's actually a lot of fun," he said, reverting back to his normal self.

"What do you do there?" Christine asked, wondering why he would ever choose to work at such a mysterious place.

"Juggle fire. Magic tricks. I'm even the Emcee at certain events. The park is really popular since it's brand new and all. People love being scared, you see, so that's what we do."

Christine's brain sparked an idea. "What is your boss like, Jordan? Is he nice?"

"Nice?" Jordan laughed. "I really wouldn't know. I've never actually met the man. They say he's a bit of a recluse."

"How did you get hired, then?"

"The job interview was conducted by one of his assistants. Fleck, I believe, was her name. Nice woman. Owns this weird hat." He shook his head. " Anyway, it's her and two other people that run the park in his stead. The rumor is that he gives them specific orders on what exactly he needs for his park. People go in for an interview; if they fit the part, they have the job, and if not, they're given an apology and a kick in the pants."

Christine took in all this information carefully. Here was another job opportunity on a silver platter...plus it definitely sounded like a place she could certainly do well in…..

"What are the odds are that he would hire someone now?"

Jordan saw the hope in Christine's eyes and knew immediately what she was thinking about. He cocked his head to one side, contemplating her proposal. He knew he couldn't guarantee a job offer, let alone set up an interview with Miss Fleck. But it seemed rather foolish to let the girl down.

"Why not," he said, to Christine's delight. "But we better hurry if we want to catch Miss Fleck before the crowds get out of hand." He stood up, brushing the crumbs off his shirt. Christine looked startled.

"What- right now?"

"Well, of course! What did you think I meant, tomorrow?" He saw Christine's face twist a little in nerves. "Don't worry about it. The worst they can say is no, right?"

"That's true," Christine nodded. She stood up and threw the empty hot dog wrapper and napkin into the trash bin. "Let's go."

"One thing, though, before we start," Jordan said, catching her arm. "Make sure you don't stare at them. Makes them slightly uncomfortable."

"Oh," Christine said. "But there's no reason for me to stare at them- is there?"

"Just wait and see." And with that, they sauntered up the boardwalk towards the dark place of riddles, mystery, danger and wonder owned by a reclusive and brilliant ghost of a man: Phantasma.


	3. Chapter 2

Foreboding.

It was the perfect word to describe what Christine Daae was feeling when she saw what could only be the entranceway to Phantasma. The gate stretched far and wide, giving the appearance that all who approached it were only small and insignificant creatures. Thick, iron bars spelled the word "PHANTASMA" across the top in a spiky, rather childish way, arrowheads poking out from where the letters tapered off. When she looked closely at the strange little designs that lay between the long, narrow bars, she saw that they were the engravings of little clown faces leering eerily in different directions.

"Great, isn't it?" Jordan asked brightly.

Christine could only nod. She only needed to see the gateway to realize exactly how different this park would be from anywhere else. The atmosphere was even different here than it was on the other side of the Boardwalk; dark clouds hovered above the wooden roller coaster that snaked in high arches around the park as if it were hesitant to touch the ground, the rough scents of fire and smoke surrounding them. It was a general feeling of chaos, excitement and danger all rolled into one.

_What went on this man's life that would have enabled him to design a park such as this? _Christine thought.

"C'mon," Jordan said. He turned his back to Christine and went straight to the lock. After a few moments, the gate opened with a loud creak that grated against Christine's ears.

"Welcome to Phantasma," Jordan said with a grin. Hesitatingly, Christine peered into the entrance way.

Inside the gate was a world beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Fire breathers, jugglers, musicians, clowns- all surrounded by astonished crowds as far as the eye can see. Large black and white striped tents stretched all the way down each side of the fence, stretching high and mighty towards the sky, each one having a giant sign advertising their attraction pinned to the their tops. People wearing strange looking outfits stood outside them, performing various tricks to entice the visitors to enter their tents. There was palmistry, ventriloquism, even a small emporium filled with reptiles and birds from all over the world. And beyond all that stood various amusement rides that emitted horrible screams from the people experiencing them.

Christine just stood, awestruck. "This- Jordan, this is incredible!"

"Shall we?" he said, offering her his arm.

They made their way into the park, Christine's eyes trying to take everything in at once. Jordan saw her face and chuckled.

"You look like the cat that ate the canary," he remarked. "Your face reminds me of my own when I first saw this place."

"I can't get over how amazing this all is." Finally, they reached the side of what looked like some sort of funhouse. Gold letters saying _Dr. Gangle's Labyrinth of Mystery _were painted across the top.

Jordan bent down to the ground and picked up a sort of ringlet chained into the ground. As he straightened up, he pulled the ringlet with it, lifting up what became a trapdoor. Beneath it was a set of stairs.

"This way," he said.

"I guess this is one way to keep out annoying guests, isn't it," she said as they slowly made their way down. It seemed that one little slip and the stair would collapse underneath, causing them to fall into the dark abyss.

"They prefer the dark," Jordan replied simply.

The journey down continued. Christine became more and more wary of this entire trip. Not only was the park itself a little strange, but what kind of people preferred to work underground?

_This just keeps getting more and more interesting_, she thought to herself. _What would Dad think of this? _

They finally reached the bottom stair. In front of them was a long hallway, the only light coming from black iron chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, the flames wavering slightly. The light illuminated boxes and papers scattered about the clearing, as if someone had taken their anger out on them.

"Miss Fleck?" Jordan called out. His voice bounced and echoed off the stone walls. "Hello?"

"Maybe she's out."

"Fleck? She never leaves. Give it a minute." Jordan looked out again. "Miss Fleck?" he called louder.

After a moment, a resounding _click_ was heard from the right side of the hall and a wooden door swung open.

Christine clenched her resume tightly in her fist as if it was some sort of lifeline.

Footsteps were slowly making their way towards Jordan and Christine. In the shadows she could make out the small, slim figure of a woman with things sticking out of her arms. When Christine looked closer, she realized with a jolt that they were feathers. Real, actual bird-like feathers.

_Wow_, she thought. As nervous as she was, Christine couldn't help but be fascinated with what she saw in front of her.

"Miss Fleck," Jordan said to the shadow, smiling. "How are you today?"

"You're late for your shift, Mr. Lindsey," it replied. Its voice was light and trill, like a swallow. It made her likeness to a bird even more prominent. "You know better than to make the master angry over something as trivial as this. Perhaps you care to get in trouble? Again?"

Jordan waved that aside. "Don't worry about it. The way I see it, I just saved him from wasting time on auditions."

"Pardon?"

"Miss Fleck, I just found you Phantasma's newest chorus girl."

Christine started. "What?" He had never said anything about her being a chorus girl. Jordan saw the look on Christine's face.

"Just play along," he muttered encouragingly. He turned back to the woman still hidden in the shadow. "May I introduce Miss Christine Daae? I think you'll find her extremely adequate for the position."

"I see." The shadow turned towards Christine, interested. "Do you have any references, Miss?"

**~0~**

"Look at that crowd!"

"All those people!"

"Look over there at that guy with that silly hat. It's ninety degrees outside!"

"He doesn't look as ridiculous as you."

"Girls!" a commanding voice rang out. The chorus girls jumped, losing their place on the crack in the curtain and turned around guiltily to their dance instructor. "Get back to your places. Immediately."

"Yes, Madame Giry," they grumbled. The seven chorus girls resumed their positions behind the curtain, warming themselves up to perform.

"Straighten out that back," Madame Giry barked to one girl. "You are not a shriveled up old woman." The girl smiled her thanks, but as Madame Giry turned, the girl made a rude gesture behind her back.

"These girls," the dance instructor said, turning to the stage manager behind the wooden podium. "They have no work ethic whatsoever."

"I beg to differ, Madame," he said, not looking up from his paperwork. "Obviously Mr. Y wouldn't have hired them if he didn't like them."

"The master expects perfection. Something these girls will never achieve," Madame Giry bristled. She was an intimidating woman, with long jet black hair tied up into a bun on the top of her head. Her long fingers were adorned with rings that she had acquired over the years as a dancer in France. They were often seen tapping her forehead whenever she was losing patience or offering praise. It was almost always the former.

"If you want to talk about lack of perfection," the stage manager said. "Let's talk about the Ooh-La-La Girl and her time managing skills."

"She will come," Madame Giry said indifferently.

"Her call was fifteen minutes ago!"

"And is there a problem?" she snapped. "You covered it by putting on those other acts. The audience does not know the order of the show. There is no issue here."

"Look, just because she's your daughter doesn't mean-"

"Here I am!" Everyone turned to see a young woman stumbling in, talking into a cell phone while holding a coffee cup in the other.

"Ms. Giry, your call was-"

"Sh!" the Ooh-La-La Girl waved her hand to silence the stage manager. She turned back to her phone. "Okay. Okay. I will, don't worry. _Ciao_!" she flipped her cell phone shut, finally taking notice of everyone staring at her. "What's the matter?"

The stage manager threw up his hands.

"Meg," her mother said patiently as though speaking to a child. "Why were you late?"

"I got tied up with something," Meg said airily, throwing the coffee cup down on top of the stage manager's paperwork. "Lost track of time. But it's done now, and I can go on." She looked to the chorus girls. "Well, let's warm up. Don't expect me to make you guys look good." She bent down to stretch her leg, not noticing the astonished and furious looks that were rapidly developing on the girls' faces.

Madame Giry turned to the stage manager. "See? She is here. There's no problem."

"Indeed," he said shortly, handing her the discarded coffee cup.

Suddenly, the phone next to the podium rang twice. The stage manager quickly picked up the phone.

"Hello?" he said. He tilted his head to one side, listening to the speaker with rapt attention. "Yes. Yes. Does she know the routine? Good. Good. Send her up, Miss Fleck."

"Fleck?" Madame Giry repeated as he hung up the phone. "What did that freak want?"

"That eighth slot for the chorus girls? Miss Fleck just filled it."

"What?" Madame Giry spluttered. "But- but Mr. Y- he said that _I _would be the one to hold auditions!"

"Well, apparently, you were beaten to the job." The stage manager turned his face back to the podium and smirked at the look on the fuming Madame's face. "Three minutes till curtain, girls!"

"I will speak to him about this," she declared.

"You really think Mr. Y is going to listen to you about this? He's a multi-million dollar businessman running the most popular amusement park in New York. I think he's got better things to do than to listen to a dance instructor complaining about fairness." He turned as a girl rushed up the stairs, hastily pulling on the straps of her costume.

"Ah!" he said, quickly going to her aid. "You must be Christine Daae."

"Yes, sir," the girl said with a bright smile. "I'm not late, am I?"

"You have two minutes till curtain. You know what you're supposed to do?"

She nodded and quickly walked to an empty space between two of the chorus girls and practiced some steps. He saw the two girls looking surprised, but after Christine shook their hands, their expressions became relaxed and friendly. Only Madame and Meg Giry regarded her with a sneer.

"Places!" he called.

"Get in line!" Meg Giry hissed. She turned before the curtain, a smile plastered across her face.

Christine took a deep breath as she heard the announcer say "_And now, ladies and gentlemen- Phantasma's own Ooh-La-La Girl- Meg Giry and the Enticing Eight!" _

The curtain rose.

**~0~**

If anyone had bothered to look down beneath the wooden planks of the stage, they would have sworn that a pair of bright, golden eyes glared menacingly back at them. The person would have then shaken their head and deemed themselves foolish, but would walk away with their hairs prickling on the backs of their necks as though they were being watched.

But they would have been correct.

For this time, the eyes were steadily watching the show, taking in each step that the dancer made. The eyes traveled over to Meg Giry-_dancing like an ox plowing the field- _to that girl Janelle- _she needs to keep the beat more- _to a girl he had never seen before. Her eyes were as bright as her smile she danced with a grace he had not seen in years. Her long, curly brown hair bounced across hair shoulder as she struck the final pose.

_How intriguing. _

The eyes watched her carefully for a full minute until they disappeared from sight, a small block of wood covering up the eyehole.

**~0~**

**A/N: I am so sorry that I haven't updated in awhile! I've had to rewrite this chapter several times before I was satisfied with it. Reviews and feedback are always appreciated! Thank you for the wonderful support :) **


	4. Chapter 3

Every night at 8:30 sharp, Meredith Valerius would pour herself a glass of red wine, grab her knitting, put a record on her mother's old turntable, and sit herself on the white cushioned lounge chair that was stationed on her front porch overlooking the beach. After a while, with the help of the wine being rich in flavor and the relaxing sight of the moon settling over the ocean, she would often fall asleep.

On this particular night, Christine Daae was walking back from a rather long day at Phantasma when she saw her aunt slumped over in her chair, one hand dangling over the arm. Making her way up the stairs, she could hear the strains of an opera echoing through the screen door. Sighing, Christine dropped her bag and went over to her aunt.

"Aunt Meredith?"

A shoulder jab. "Aunt Mer?"

Meredith's eyes jerked open to see her niece kneeling next to her.

"Goodness, Christine," she said, stretching out her arms. "You gave me a fright!"

"Sorry about that," Christine said. "But you've got something on your face." She tried not to laugh as she motioned for her aunt to wipe the spittle hanging from her lip. Her aunt brushed it away impatiently.

"What time is it?"

Christine looked at her watch. "Almost ten," she said. "Is that _La Boheme _you're playing?" Christine asked, her ears perking up at the sounds of the violins swelling in what sounded like a waltz. "_Musetta's Waltz_, right?"

"You know, you really do have your father's ear for music," Meredith said. "I remember seeing this opera at the Met in- oh dear, what was it, 1988? Your dad had taken me and your mother because he wanted to impress her."

"And you went as a third wheel? That must have been awkward," Christine said, taking a seat in the wicker rocking chair across from her aunt.

"Oh, you have no idea. When they first started dating, your mother always begged me to come along with them so she could be more "comfortable." Those two were always so sappy. Sometimes I wish I hadn't introduced them to each other, and I often said that to her whenever we were having a fight. If you had a sister, you would do the same thing, mark my words." She sighed, a smile playing around her lips as she recalled happier times.

Christine sat back and listened to the music. She recognized the opera due to her father constantly playing it when he was still alive. Resting her head on the back of the chair, a memory surfaced in her mind:

_Winter. The library. Dad blasting "La Boheme" from the stereo. Mom peering in and yelling "turn it off" because she had a headache. Again. I'm in the armchair reading….what was that book? _

_"And here it is," he would say to her when a certain passage started to play. "You hear that, Christine? This music- it's not just telling us a story. It's a true expression of the soul." _

_ "I thought I told you to shut that damn thing off!" her mother bellowed. She strode unsteadily across the room and switched the power button, effectively stopping the music. _

"_A bunch of nonsense you're teaching that brat," she said. Stop it before she gets hurt." Mom puts a hand to her head and stares at me, like I did something wrong. _

The coloratura's angry and powerful voice yanked Christine away from her thoughts. Though she did not understand more than a few sentences in Italian, it was evident that the two lovers were arguing vehemently with strong emotion. That was something Italians were known for: passion.

"I remember Dad always playing this every Sunday when I was young," Christine said. "Before- you know. He would always grab my mom and dance with her. It was their song." She smiled at the memory. "I miss that."

"I think about them every day." Meredith patted Christine on the hand. They both sat in silence for a moment, watching the waves roll onto the shore. Meredith then turned her attention over to her niece.

"You look tired, Christine. They're not overworking you at that theatre, are they?"

"Oh no! No, not at all!" Christine took the elastic out of her hair and shook it out of the tight bun that she was required to have it in for the shows. Braiding her hair, she saw the discarded knitting on her aunt's lap.

"Still working on that scarf? Haven't you been working on for a year now?"

Her aunt laughed. "Don't make fun of me! Oprah says knitting is therapeutic!"

"You shouldn't believe everything Oprah tells you. Besides, what do you need therapy for? You have the best life, living on a beach in a gorgeous house with a great job and a great boyfriend! Aunt Mer, you're living the high life."

"Well, that's true. Working in an art gallery from nine to six five days a week does have its perks." Meredith said jokingly. Her face became serious. "But I do worry about you up on that Boardwalk. I know you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, but…." she trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Christine, however, knew exactly what was going through her aunt's mind.

"You're worried about the people who work at Phantasma," she prompted.

"It's just that I've heard stories, Christine." Meredith rushed through her sentences now that Christine knew what was going on. "That park. Those-oddities- the owner-and it's not even that, don't get me wrong, but don't you feel a bit out of place when you go there?"

Christine stared at her aunt, contemplating the question. Did she feel out of place? She had only been working as a chorus girl in the Phantasma shows for about two weeks now. And yet, they were filled with more memories and more laughs than Christine ever had at Boston University, or even her life. She remembered how proud she felt after that first show and all the praise she had gotten from the chorus girls and backstage crew for picking up the choreography so well in such a short amount of time, quickly garnering a good reputation among the various workers.

Some of these workers, Christine had learned quickly, were freaks in every sense of the word. For example, the gypsy woman who ran the fortune telling tent only had one leg and smoked a pipe whenever she read the palm of a nervous customer. The man who sold candied apples had a glass eye that he popped out for the entertainment of children who did not yet realize the consequences that come with curiosity. Not to mention Miss Fleck, with bright green and blue feathers literally stitched into her arms, or Mr. Squelch, the strong man who worked in the sideshow and another one of the elusive Mr. Y's assistants, who had strange markings tattooed all over his face and bald head. Heeding Jordan's words that he gave her the first day they met, Christine learned not to stare at these fascinating creatures. But eventually, she learned to look past their exteriors and saw that they were, underneath all their strangeness, just people with the same hopes and dreams like herself.

And Jordan- Jordan had quickly become her best friend. He often came by before and after his shifts in Phantasma to visit Christine, sometimes sneaking a hot dog to her when Madame Giry wasn't looking. Yes, he was a little strange- his obsession with setting things on fire certainly proved that- but the fact that he risked losing his job to help out a stranger showed that he had more kindness than anyone she had ever known.

"You know," she said carefully. "They may look weird, Aunt Mer, but they really are kind and gentle people. I love getting up and working with them. I never know what to expect, and that's the best part. I don't care about what they look like, it's who they are that I like about them. They're my friends," she simply concluded.

Meredith did not look convinced.

"You should come up and see one of the shows," Christine continued. "See what it's like for yourself. Have you ever actually been inside the park?"

"No, I can't say that I have," Meredith admitted. "Alright. You've convinced me. I'll try to come up to Phantasma one night after work."

"Thanks, Aunt Meredith," Christine said with a grin. You won't regret it, I promise." They both sat silent for a moment, looking out at the waves rolling gently on the sand. A couple walking across the sand were silhouetted against the moonlight. Christine could make out the hands that were entwined between each other.

"There's this woman I've seen a couple times walking around the Boardwalk in some sort of skivvy black outfit," Meredith said thoughtfully, taking a sip of her wine. "It looked way too tight on her to be considered flattering. She has these really gaudy rings too. "

"Oh, you're talking about Madame Giry, the dance instructor."

"And does she like you?"

The old dancer from France always narrowed her eyes whenever she looked at Christine, but she never said anything insulting directly to her. Meg Giry, on the other hand, became furiously jealous at how the new girl was suddenly taking away all of "her" attention, and as a result was bullying the other chorus girls worse than ever out of pure spite. But it was always worth it whenever they banded together and played pranks on her in retaliation. One fond memory was when the stage manager, who Meg Giry had insulted horribly one day, thought that a frog might add an interesting flavor to her coffee in addition to creating a lesson about respect for The Ooh-La-La Girl. The shrieks could be heard from across the other side of the Boardwalk. Christine chuckled as she remembered Jordan asking if a bird had maybe gotten run over by the roller coaster.

"Not particularly," Christine said slowly. "She doesn't say anything to me, but when she looks at me- there's something about her that I don't trust. Her daughter's the same way. I try to just mind my own business whenever I'm around them. I don't want to cause trouble."

"I'd be wary of these Girys, girl," Meredith warned. "You mark my words. Something is going to set them off. When it does, you be ready."

It came to pass just as Meredith had warned.

A few days after the conversation with her aunt, Christine found herself yet again posing for an enthusiastic crowd, applauding the beautiful dancers for a fine show. The girls bowed deeply and backed up so the curtain could come down without a hitch.

"Good show, ladies," the stage manager said, putting away his headset.

"I beg to differ," Madame Giry said under her breath, and though Christine heard it, she pretended to be preoccupied with unlacing her ballet shoes.

"Meg Giry," the madame continued, walking towards her daughter. "What kind of pirouettes were those? Such mistakes are expected to be made by three year olds!"

"It's not my fault, Mom!" Meg exclaimed angrily. Stepping over to the side of the stage, their voices dropped to angry whispers and shaking hands. They glared at Christine, who was still sitting center stage, pretending to be preoccupied with her shoes. Footsteps approached her from behind.

"You better get out of here," the stage manager advised her, bending down so Christine could hear more clearly. "You don't want to be caught in the middle when these two fight." Christine nodded and quickly made her way down the stairs to the dressing rooms where the other girls were chatting aimlessly about what handsome men were out in the audience tonight and how they were stared at longingly by them. Though it was foolish of them to think such fantasies would actually happen, Christine couldn't help but smile as she listened to the hopeful exchanges between them. After all, she was a romantic at heart.

"One day, a man is going to come down here and ask for my name," one girl declared, slipping on a pair of jean shorts. "And he'll bring me flowers with a huge engagement ring hidden inside."

"Don't get your hopes up," another girl teased, unscrewing the fake diamond earrings that were part of their costume. "He might have mistaken you for the wrong girl. He was really looking for-"

The door crashed open behind them, and Meg Giry entered, her face flushed and her eyes cold, bordering on furious. The room fell silent as she stormed over to her dressing station, slamming various items into her make-up kit, throwing her hat into a chair, basically throwing an impressive tantrum. Christine and the other girls could only stare.

Suddenly, Meg ripped a piece of fabric out from underneath her thermos, which unfortunately contained a good portion of hot tea that Meg drank before showtime. The thermos toppled over, and out spilled the burning hot liquid onto the white sundress that was laying innocently on her chair. Everyone watched with mouths open as the once pure white dress slowly turned an ugly shade of brown.

A loud, piercing scream emitted from Meg's throat. Without warning, she quickly turned around towards the group of girls watching her and started throwing whatever objects she could grab her hands on towards their directions.

Pandemonium broke loose. Shouts of "Meg!" and attempts to calm her down were fruitless as the girls were too busy ducking and dodging Meg's belongings to even get near her. It was no use; Meg Giry had become something like a wild animal. Christine had thrown herself onto the ground, trying to get herself out of harm's way.

"What's wrong with her?" she yelled to Janelle, one of the dancers. It was like being in a battlefield.

"This is normal for her!" Janelle called back. "Her mother must have made her mad!"

"This is _normal?" _

"Just stay out of the way and you'll be fine!" A music box whirled by Janelle's ear, crashing into the space where her head was moments before. Janelle quickly took refuge behind one of the tables.

"I HATE THIS SHOW!" Meg was screaming at the top of her lungs. "I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT-"

"Meg!" Christine shouted, holding her hands over her ears. She quickly made her way over to the Ooh-La-La Girl so that she was standing right in front of her. "Stop! Please!"

"I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I-"

_SLAP. _

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it started as the resounding noise cracked around the room. The girls looked up, startled and puzzled as to what might have caused the diva to stop. They looked up and saw, to both their delight and horror, Christine's hand stretched out in front of both her and Meg Giry's faces. A large, red handprint was starting to become vaguely outlined on the left side of Meg's cheek.

Christine looked horrified. In her efforts to stop Meg's madness from harming anyone, she had done the only thing she could think of. For the first in her life, Christine Daae knew what it felt like to have power over someone. It terrified her.

She slowly lowered the offending object and looked at it. The hand looked innocently back at her, the only evidence of her action was the red swelling in her palm along with some slight stinging in the fingertips. While the stinging would eventually stop, the mark on Meg's cheek would remain for much longer. It wasn't just a handprint; it was a symbol of Meg Giry's foolishness, pride and selfishness.

A mark of her humiliation.

"I-" Christine stuttered. "I-didn't mean it. It- was an accident-"

It was the wrong thing to say, for the next thing Christine knew, Meg had jumped on top of her, slapping her face, pulling her hair, trying to make Christine feel some tiny part of the pain and embarrassment that was coursing through her veins.

"I'm sorry!" she kept repeating over and over, trying to defend herself. But Meg Giry was relentless…..

"ENOUGH!"

A powerful voice thundered through the dressing room. Because her head was turned the other way by Meg's hand twisting it, Christine did not recognize it as anyone she had met before. Perhaps it was a stagehand who had overheard the commotion….

The girls were whispering to each other behind their hands. Christine could hear footsteps on the wooden floor, slowly coming towards them. Meg Giry had hastily stood up and was quickly brushing herself off, terror etched all over her face. She could hear the swish of the pant legs as a long shadow approached her.

Christine turned her head and looked up to see a figure with bright, yellow eyes staring down at her.

"Enjoying the view of the ceiling, Miss Daae?"


	5. Chapter 4

Jordan walked across the hot sand, dragging behind him a rental beach chair and umbrella. As much as he enjoyed getting a tan while working on the Boardwalk, the heat rash on his arm told him that a break was in order. Pausing only for a moment, Jordan put a hand to his eyes and looked over the long stretch of beach. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

He trudged forward. The sweat on his hand was making it hard for him to keep a firm hold on both items. After stopping and starting again for the third time, Jordan decided he was close enough to call out.

"You can at least give me a hand!"

"And miss the fun of seeing you struggle? No way," Christine teased as she walked quickly towards him, her black sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose so that Jordan could not see the top half of her face.

"Here, take the umbrella. It's lighter," he said, holding it out.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I don't think it's wise for you to be carrying heavy stuff." His eyes went down to the rather ugly bruise that Meg Giry left on her right shoulder. Christine shrugged.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Just because I get bruised up a bit doesn't mean I can't do anything." Instead of taking the umbrella, she snatched the chair out of Jordan's hands. "C'mon then. I found a great spot."

She led Jordan to a spot near the water where her chair and bag were already set up. Today the sea was as calm as a lake with little waves lapping upon the shore. School was still in session so the beach was not yet crowded with large vacationing families and the thousands of colorful umbrellas that were bound to be spotted within the coming days.

"Perfect day for the beach," Jordan commented as he sat down. "It's great to have the same days off, don't you think?"

Christine nodded. She picked up her book and started flipping through the pages.

"What's that?"

"_Hamlet. _It belonged to my father. He was a bit of a Shakespeare man."

"Was?"

"My father died of cancer," Christine explained. "Last October." Jordan leaned back in his seat, not knowing what to say.

"I'm so sorry," he said finally.

"No, it's okay," Christine said. How were you to know? It's something that I don't tell people. For good reason," she added as an afterthought. "All I would get is pity. And that's something that I don't really want from people. I prefer remember my father the way he was as opposed to his last few months." Christine became quiet after her admittance. Even though she trusted Jordan, she did not think she could talk about the horror and heartache she still felt following her father's death without sobbing like a child. She would withhold those particular emotions for the time being.

"What kind of business was he in? Books?"

"No. He was a musician," Christine said shortly. "A violinist." She lightly traced the outline of her wristwatch as if determined not to say anything else on the subject.

"What about your mother?" Jordan asked. Christine set her mouth in a line.

"She walked out on us when I was nine," she said quietly. "I don't remember much of her anyway. She was always out doing something with her friends." Christine didn't want to add that her mother would have usually been found passed out on her and her husband's bed with a bottle of cheap vodka or wine usually spilled over, the contents staining the comforter. She then had a flashback to her father's funeral, where her mother (along with her disgusting, greasy haired husband) tried to corner her as she was leaving the graveyard. If she wasn't in plain view of her whole family, Christine would have liked nothing more than to punch her in the face. The sun's bright glares had also prevented her from taking proper aim.

"I don't consider her family."

"And I thought my mom was bad," Jordan said. "She's got six of us to look after, so every day there's something going on."

"I could imagine," Christine said with a chuckle. "If your siblings are just like you, I applaud your mother for keeping her sanity."

"Who do you think taught me how to juggle with fire?" Jordan asked dryly. Christine couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Clearing her throat after the awkward moment passed, she turned her sight back to _Hamlet_. She was up to the part where Hamlet met his father's ghost for the first time.

"How's your eye?" Jordan asked. He sensed that Christine wanted to change the subject. Quite thankful that Jordan got the hint, she took off her sunglasses and gently rubbed the cut that was above her left eyebrow. It still stung from when Meg attacked her.

"It feels better than it did yesterday night," she admitted. She turned to Jordan. His face did not change, though Christine could see a flicker of anger in his eyes. "Thank God the stage manager and the girls cleaned me up and brought me home before my aunt came back from her date. If she had seen me, I'd be on the unemployment line looking for another job."

"Meg Giry is such an idiot," Jordan said, waving his own sunglasses around. "She deserves what she got. I wonder what her mother said when she heard that her precious little star got suspended for three weeks without pay."

"Yes, Mr. Y was very clear about her punishment," Christine said.

"And _that. _When I heard how he stopped the fight, I thought Dr. Gangle was joking! He said-"

"Dr. Gangle? The man with the monocle? He runs the funhouse, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he's also one of Mr. Y's assistants. You don't want to mess with him, he's got the temper of a jackal," Jordan warned. "Anyway, when he told us what happened, I was so shocked I dropped my balls."

Christine cocked an eyebrow.

"I was practicing my juggling act," he said hastily. "So- what was he like?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Y."

Christine paused in her book. Were there any words to describe the elusive Mr. Y? Though their meeting had only lasted a few minutes, Christine could remember perfectly how she was stuck in the fetal position where Meg had pushed her on the floor, her eyes slowly taking in the man who was standing right above her.

Through his three piece tuxedo suit, Christine could see that he was a rather skinny man with broad shoulders and long, sinewy arms. His jet black hair was slicked down so that it barely reached the back of his neck. The man also had another interesting feature, a fragile mask made out of- porcelain? glass? - that covered almost the entire right side of his face. His left side was, for lack of better word, fascinating. As if it was sculpted by Michaelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci himself. Each feature, from hisarched thin eyebrow to the lips that were set in a perfect line, was chiseled to perfection.

But his eyes, his yellow glowing eyes- they were what Christine could not tear her eyes away from. Never mind that his voice was so deep and smooth that it sunk into her mind and whirled around her like a bird trapped in the snake's coils. His eyes held a power all their own. Christine shivered as she recalled he had stared at her.

It was enthralling. But terrifying.

"He seemed kind of- charismatic." She thought of that calmness, that coolness in which he spoke to the terrified Meg Giry. It was slightly unnerving, causing her to tremble with some sort of emotion. All Christine could do was watch as Mr. Y destroyed the Ooh-La-La Girl with two simple words strung together, heavy with dark meaning.

"Charismatic?" Jordan repeated.

"Maybe charismatic is not the right word. Intimidating, rather. Hostile."

"That's what I've heard. You know he's brought people into his office and had them dictate their own letters of resignation as a way of punishment?"

"What?"

"Dead serious. Is it true that he wears a mask?"

Christine nodded. "It's a quarter mask made out of some sort of glass, I think it was made of porcelain. On the right side of his face." She gestured with one hand.

"Interesting," Jordan said thoughtfully. "So the ghost sets foot outside his tower at last."

The sat in silence for a few moments, each one lost in their own thoughts. The sun glistened right onto the ocean, causing a glare to bounce off the waves. A few gulls called to each other, asking for food.

The obnoxious ringing of a cell phone interrupted their reverie. Jordan reached into his pocket and flipped it open.

"Hello, Jordan speaking," he said cheerfully. "What's up, my man? No, I'm with Christine Daae, you know we have the day off- hey, you alright? You sound a little out of breath. Yeah." Jordan paused. After a few moments, Christine saw his face pale. "What? Are you serious? Holy sh- where did they find it?" A few more pauses as Jordan listened intently to the frantic voice on the other line. "Why there? Yeah, accidents happen, but that's just too much of a coincidence, don't you think?" A few more seconds. "Yes. I'll be right over. See you soon." He hung up the phone and turned to Christine. His face was white with total and utter shock as he stared down at the phone.

"What happened?"

"Someone just found a body hanging from one of the rafters of the roller coaster with his throat slit open."

**~0~**

A crowd was gathered underneath the roller coaster as the Coney Island police force was gently taking down the body with the large end of a crane attached to the noose that was still around the man's neck. The sight dried blood was soaked all over the rope, his shirt, sneakers, pants, even the baseball cap perched jauntily on his head made Christine want to release the bile that was in her throat, but she forced it down.

The victim was a forty year old man, one of the mechanical engineers for Phantasma. Those who knew him said he was a man with a kind heart but a wandering eye that lingered a little more than necessary over the female sex. Underneath the blood, Death seemed to have treated him kindly in looks.

"This is horrible," Christine muttered to Jordan.

"I've seen him a few times before," Jordan said quietly, not taking his eyes off the body. Everyone was watching in horrified yet respectful silence as two men carried the body away from the roller coaster with a sheet over his face. His friends were hastily wiping their hidden tears, while the rest of them started slowly walking back to resume their normal lives. "I've never actually talked to him."

"Do they know the cause of death yet?"

"No," said a voice behind them. The stage manager had come up behind them during the processional. He wiped his forehead with the back of his shaking hand. "They're saying though that it was accidental."

"That's the only reasonable cause," Christine said, looking up at the roller coaster. The fall could certainly kill someone. The stage manager followed her gaze.

"That's true, Christine," he said. "If it were only a hanging."

"Only a hanging?" she repeated, slightly confused.

"The man had a clean slit from one ear to the other. You think that was just an accident as well?"

Christine turned around to see her stage manager looking down at her, his eyes trying to give her a hint as to what was going through his mind. Jordan made a slight sound in his throat.

"Come off it," he said in disbelief. "There's no way that- are you serious?"

"Evidently, someone was trying to send a message." The stage manager shook his head. "Why? I don't know, but you have to agree that it had created the right effect." He started walking back towards the theatre area, where crewmen were setting up for the next day's performances. Aside from their noise, the rest of the Boardwalk was silent with not even the birds making sounds. Christine could not help but feel as though the Boardwalk had become ominous.

"What are you saying, that some sick nut is killing workers to make a statement? That's crazy." Jordan crossed his arms.

"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying you need to watch yourselves!" the stage manager hissed. "You never know who could be listening!"

"I just-"

"Excuse me." A soft voice cut through their heated argument. Christine, Jordan and the stage manager looked for the source of the sound and saw Ms. Fleck standing on the stage, her hands folded in front of her. Her beady eyes were staring down at Christine.

"Miss Daae. Compliments of Mr. Y. He was wondering if you would like to have dinner with him tonight?"


	6. Chapter 5

Christine Daae wasn't the only one who was shocked; it also echoed on the faces of Jordan and the stage manager.

"Dinner? With me?"

Miss Fleck nodded.

"Why?"

"He craves company."

"But I don't even know him."

"All the more reason for you to accept." She nervously scratched at her fishnet stockinged leg, waiting for the "yes" that she was not sure was going to come.

Christine didn't know what to say. It didn't make any sense. Why would her employer want to meet her for dinner after a meeting of only a few minutes in which they barely spoke five words?

"Why her?" Jordan asked loudly. "Why not someone else?"

"Evidently Miss Daae left an impression on him," Miss Fleck snapped. "How many times do I have to explain to you, Mr. Lindsey, that should you know better than to question Mr. Y's reasoning?" It was obvious that her nerves were getting the better of her. She turned her attention back towards Christine. "Miss Daae, the master expects me back with an answer. The sooner you make up your mind, the better for all of us."

Christine took a moment to consider the strange woman's words. Finally, she spoke.

"I'm sorry, but- I can't."

"You can't?" echoed the stage manager and Miss Fleck.

"Good choice," Jordan muttered.

"Miss Daae," Miss Fleck said as if speaking to someone who was hard of hearing. "I advise you strongly to reconsider your decision. Mr. Y is-"

"He is my employer," Christine cut her off softly. "I understand. But unfortunately, I have to decline. Please tell him I'm sorry."

"He'll want a reason."

"I have a previous engagement." Christine looked at Miss Fleck, brown eyes staring into blue. After a few moments, Miss Fleck surrendered in the silent battle of wills.

"Very well, then," she said in her quiet voice. "I shall give him your answer. In the meantime, should you wish to change your mind and accept, there will be means of transportation outside your aunt's house at seven o'clock."

"But I-"

"I also advise you to wear something semi-formal." Miss Fleck continued as though she had not heard Christine's objection. "Mr. Y is a man who does not appreciate someone wearing," she paused, her eyes skimming over Christine's clothing. "_jeans and a T-shirt _to dinner." She turned to leave.

"What makes you think she'll change her mind?" the stage manager asked. He was watching Miss Fleck wearily as she glanced back at him over her left shoulder.

"What makes you think she hasn't already accepted?" And with that, she walked down the stairs. The stage manager looked at Christine.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"You don't really have a previous engagement, do you?"

Christine sighed. "What else was I supposed to say? I just don't get why he would want to have dinner with me in the first place."

Jordan suddenly let out a laugh, causing Christine and the stage manager to look at him strangely. "Wow, Christine, you must have made some impression on him. First you draw him out to the public. Now he wants to have dinner with you?" He collapsed onto one of the wooden benches, hooting as if he had heard the joke of the century. The stage manager did not look amused.

"Idiot," he muttered. He turned back to Christine. She could see that he looked agitated.

"Is there a reason for me to be worried about this?"

"No, no," the stage manager said, though Christine knew he must be lying. "Just- be careful when dealing with Mr. Y. He's a man who usually gets what he wants, no matter what the consequences are." Shaking back his rather graying hair, the stage manager withdrew a gold pocket watch from his right pocket and checked the time. "It's getting late. I have to meet with the investors of Phantasma and explain this whole mess. Try to reassure them that nothing of serious consequence will happen to the park because of this."

"He really doesn't do much for himself, does he," Christine muttered. The more she heard about this man, the more confused and wary she became.

A small, sad smile appeared on the stage manager's face. "If you wore a mask, I don't think you would want to go out into the open either."

Jordan looked up from his place on the bench, the laughter slowly leaving his eyes. "Wait. I thought the investors lived in France?"

"They do, but, of course, they chose the wrong time to check out how their investment was going. They're on their way to the pier as we speak." He nodded curtly to Jordan and Christine. Christine, however, was looking up at the roller coaster in thought.

"Don't forget what I said."

She nodded her head and the stage manager turned and walked off.

**~0~**

Later that night, the grandfather clock in Meredith Valerius's home chimed seven times, the pendulum swinging lazily back and forth. But the atmosphere became frantic as a woman quickly entered the kitchen, dropping her purse on the floor while wringing her hands.

"Christine? Christine, where are you?"

"Right here," Christine said, stepping out of the bathroom. She had changed into a light yellow sundress, toweling her hair dry from a cold shower. "What's going on?"

"Christine, there's- something here for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Look out the window. They said they were waiting for you?"

With a drop in her stomach, Christine ran to the living room window. The sight put her in shock.

A black horse was pawing at the sand nervously while a large, bald-headed groomsman with tattoos all over his face and head was brushing down its sleek fur. Squinting her eyes, Christine realized that the was Squelch, the strong man who was one of Mr. Y's assistants. Attached to the creature's back was a matching black carriage with what looked like gold skeleton heads engraved on the sides. The horseman was sitting atop on a red cushion, carrying what looked like a whip in his right hand while his other was-

"A hook?" Meredith said, peering through the curtain next to Christine. "He has a hooked hand?"

"I guess so," Christine said, not taking her eyes away from the sight. "I've never seen him before." Her mind was reeling- so Mr. Y was really serious about expecting her for dinner. Did the man really not listen to anyone but himself? They watched as the groomsman gave the horse one final stroke before turning and walking towards the house.

"Oh no."

"It's okay, Aunt Mer," Christine half-heartedly reassured her aunt as they heard a sharp knock on the door. Aunt Meredith approached it hesitantly and opened it.

"Can I help you?"

"Good evening, ma'am." The soft, sweet voice that came out of the threatening-looking man surprised both women. "Squelch is my name and I am here to pick up a Miss Christine Daae? Mr. Y is expecting her for dinner tonight."

"Mr. Y?" Meredith turned to Christine with a puzzled look on her face. "Your boss?"

Christine ignored her as she looked into the face of the tattooed man. "How did Mr. Y know where I live?"

"I don't really know. Though I suppose it's his job to know where his employees live." Though he was smiling gently, Christine couldn't help but notice that Squelch was fiddling with his hat nervously. Did this man cause everyone involved in Phantasma to be scared of him?

"Miss Daae," Squelch continued. "It is my job to make sure you arrive safe and sound, but I must ask that we leave as soon as possible. Mr. Y does not like to be kept waiting, especially for appointments such as these."

"So other people have had these appointments, have they?"

"Christine!" Meredith admonished. Christine shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for." Squelch was still smiling.

"Shall we?" he asked, bowing slightly and gesturing her out the door. Christine's mind was reeling in a silent battle as she teetered back and forth on her feet. The stage manager's words were echoing through her mind.

_He's a man who gets what he wants, no matter what the consequences are..._

"Christine," Meredith whispered. She knew her niece well enough to see that Christine was going through. "Remember that you always have a choice. Just make sure it's the one you really want to do."

Christine looked at her aunt with a nervous smile. "I'll be home late." She kissed her goodbye on the cheek and followed Squelch out the door.

**~0~**

The man paced around the room in quick, furious strides. Where was she? He had sent Squelch to her aunt's home not more than half an hour ago. It only took fourteen minutes exactly to get to her house from the park and with the horse it only took nine minutes.

He ran his hand s through his hair, smoothing it out. He would only have perfection in front of an angel such as she- considering he was no more than the Devil's Child, as the freaks he hired called him.

"Fools," he said angrily. "They would not even have jobs if Erik did not hire them." He continued to pace, adjusting various utensils around the long wooden table that was set for two. Perfection, perfection...he hoped the flowers would be to her liking.

But perhaps- perhaps she would be his saving grace…..his hand went to his porcelain mask, gingerly stroking down the side. If only he wasn't given this curse, this damnable, loathsome curse...

A knock on the door broke through his thoughts. He abruptly turned and saw two figures standing in the doorway.

The taller one cleared his throat and brought forth his angel. "Miss Christine Daae for dinner, sir."


	7. Chapter 6

**(This is a re-edited chapter. Thank you to everyone for reading so far, I'm flattered with the positive reponse this has gotten. Enjoy!)**

~0~

Christine Daae never had a dinner partner quite like Mr. Y. For example, while platters and platters of food were being served in front of the couple, her host never took a bite, only small sips from his glass of wine which did not stain the porcelain of his mask. His eyes never left her face, leaving Christine feeling rather self-conscious about the way she ate her food.

"This is delicious," she said, trying to make conversation. He said nothing, only continued to stare. After a moment of silence, Christine continued to eat.

"How do you like the flowers?"

Christine looked up, startled. The man's question hung in the air.

"The flowers?" Christine had noticed the beautiful roses when she entered the room, but did not have a chance to observe them up close. Now she saw that they were in perfect bloom.

"They're lovely," she replied with a small smile. "Roses will always be my favorite flower. I always found them to be sort of romantic. I always had this dream, you see, that I could grow my own…." she trailed off. "I'm sorry, here I am rambling on about flowers."

"There is nothing to apologize for," Mr. Y stated. He showed no emotion, though Christine saw his eyes glint when she commented on the roses. Putting her fork down after one last bite, Christine dabbed her mouth with the napkin and set it down. She did not notice how her host watched the napkin trail gently across her lips or how his hands had clenched under the table into fists.

"Come," he said. "Let us go to the drawing room."

The drawing room itself was magnificent in size. Dark in ambiance, along the back walls were high bookshelves filled with books and folders of every color and shape (Christine tilted her head to the side and saw that they several were in different languages). To the right was a high tabled desk with something that looked remarkably like blueprints stacked neatly in a pile and music notes carved into the wood. Black curtains were drawn over the wide windows but not enough so that tiny strands of light were peeking in. As Mr. Y escorted her to a large red chaise lounge, Christine's eyes immediately went to the black pipe organ stationed in the far left corner of the room.

"You play music?" she asked, surprised.

"Of course," he replied, sitting down opposite of her in a wooden chair. "I have played for many a year. Music is the expression of the soul, do you not agree?"

She nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes. My father would say that to me whenever he played."

"He was a musician, then."

"The best."

"A violinist, I believe?"

Christine's eyebrows furrowed. "Well, yes, but- how did you know-"

"It is the owner's job to know about his employees," he said abruptly. He propped himself erect in his chair, every sense on alert. "Might I not do as I please in my park?"

Christine flushed. "Of course you can."

Mr. Y looked into her face. Through the masked man's glare, Christine saw a combination of anger and- was that fear in those eyes that had never left hers for a moment? Whatever it was, it was slightly disconcerting. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her hand rubbing up and down her left arm.

"When did you first start to play?" she asked, going back to the only subject she seemed to get any response from.

"I taught myself when I was a child."

"Only the pipe organ?"

Finally, a small chuckle escaped from the cold man's own lips. "More than that, my dear. Would you care to hear something?" Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to walk over to the the bookshelf and take down a black case of some sort.

Christine's breath caught in her throat. _No….no, not that….._

Calmly, Mr. Y set the bow onto the strings of his wooden violin and began to play.

~0~

Meanwhile, outside the entrance to Phantasma stood four men against the moonlight. Each one had a different emotion sketched on his face: anger, disdain, worry and amusement.

"Let me get this straight, Monsieur Moncharmin," the stage manager said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "You _want _me to tell the press that this was a murder?"

"Of course!" Moncharmin cried. His black moustache twitched excitedly. "Can you imagine? A murder is exactly what the public likes to hear! Think of the publicity this park will get. We'll be rich, my friend. Rich! Don't you agree, Richard?"

The man Richard nodded, hiding a yawn behind his gloved hand. "Quite right, Moncharmin," he said. "Now that business is taken care of, let's go eat. None of those disgusting hot dogs, I want a real dinner." He turned to leave with Moncharmin, patting his already bulging stomach.

"Wait, this can't be all!" the third man exclaimed. His wavy blonde hair swung down in his face while his blue eyes shone with fury. "I think you all are missing the point. Joseph Buquet was _murdered." _

"We already established that. Case closed." Richard explained this as if he was talking to a two-year old.

"You're not interested in opening an investigation? Any inquiries? Surely there were witnesses that saw him beforehand-"

"The police will take care of it."

"The police will probably have another victim before the week is out," the man continued. He turned towards the stage manager. "This park needs to be shut down."

The two comrades stopped their laughter.

"Close the park?" they shouted in unison. "Are you mad?"

"It is only a possibility," the stage manager argued.

"Don't you want the people safe?" the young man asked in disbelief. "The people who are basically making _you _money?"

Moncharmin went to the young man and patted his arm. "Raoul de Chagny," he said in a jovial tone. "For someone of only twenty-five years with a handsome face and mind such as yours, you are excruciatingly naïve when it comes to business. This, dear boy, is a business that feeds on the public's appetite. We don't want to not sate them, do we?" he laughed as if this was all a big joke to him. "This prankster- this _phantom_- will not hide in the shadows forever. When he makes his next move, then we attack. But for now, there's nothing to worry about." He tipped his hat. "And now, if you excuse us, there is a divine steak and salad dinner that is waiting to be devoured." Without another word, he and Richard walked down the boardwalk and out of sight.

Raoul and the stage manager could only stare dumbfound. They were both silent until Raoul let out a swear in French.

"I cannot believe I traveled from France only to hear this nonsense," he muttered.

"Don't worry, Monsieur de Chagny," the stage manager said. "They'll learn eventually."

"Yes, but what for? More violence? More murder?" the young man sat down on a bench, his fingers placed to his mouth in a steeple, tapping his small nose in thought. "You agree with me, at least?"

The stage manager nodded his head. "Of course," he said. "Murder is not an advertising campaign. Besides, I need to talk to Mr. Y first before we put out any publicity. Not that we're going to need it," he added dully. "Tomorrow's papers are going to explain it all, so to speak."

Raoul sighed. Finally, he looked up at his companion.

"What does the owner say about all this?"

"Mr. Y?" the stage manager looked at the lighted Ferris Wheel in thought. "He probably already knows."

"You mean, he hasn't even made a statement?"

"You haven't been around here enough to know the ways of Mr. Y, monsieur." The stage manager took out a cigarette and lit it, cupping the flame from his lighter with his hand. "He is an elusive one- always keeping to himself."

"What's his real name?"

"No one knows."

"Does anyone know anything about him?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"He was given to the morgue today."

Raoul shuddered slightly at this. Though he was not the sort of man to be intimidated, hearing about this certain individual gave him a slight chill. "What kind of man wants to hide behind a fortune? And why am I letting him run a place where thousands of people willingly put themselves in his hands?" He turned towards the railing that looked out onto the beach. The waves crashed onto the shore.

"I would like to meet Mr. Y. As soon as possible."

"Oh you will," the stage manager said, giving a drag. "If you want to meet him, trust me- he'll find you first."

~0~

The last note of _Moonlight Sonata _lingered in the air even as Mr. Y lowered the instrument, shaking his head. He himself was lost in the music, the notes echoing the melancholy and beauty that he felt trickling down his veins and into his bow. Music. Something that would always sustain him. For a moment, he saw Christine too as she-

_Christine. _He remembered suddenly that he had a guest. He turned around to face her.

The girl was sitting upright on the lounge, her brown eyes wide with shock. She was panting; he could tell from the rise and fall of her chest. Her hands were clenched so tightly on her thighs that he was sure the fabric of her dress would have small nail marks embedded in them. He could practically hear her mind whirring with incoherent thoughts.

_That music….that song….oh my God…..the way he plays..._

"Miss Daae?" Mr. Y asked quietly, setting the instrument on the desk. "Miss Daae," he repeated, more loudly this time. He came over to her and tentatively put a hand on her shoulder.

"Christine!"

It was only when she felt his cold hand make contact and the use of her first name that she jerked out of her trance. The faint pink blush that was in her cheeks slowly faded down and she closed her mouth.

"I'm so sorry," she muttered. "How rude of me. It was- that was…." There were no words to describe how beautiful the music was. How from the first note he played came the most glorious, the most intense, the sweetest sound she had ever heard. How the music wove around her like a fishing net and reeled her in, powerless to stop it.

It was the most passionate thing she had heard since her father died. And she didn't think she could take staying in the freezing room much longer.

"Mr. Y, I-I think I should go." She looked up into his eyes. "Please."

Mr. Y gave a curt nod. "Squelch!" he barked.

"Sir?" the man replied. Christine jumped a little as she turned and saw that he was standing in next to the pipe organ, a place that was empty a minute ago.

_What is this place? _She wondered. _Who is this man? _

"Miss Daae wishes to go home. Please see to her needs accordingly." Christine stood up from her place but Mr. Y did not remove his hand.

"Thank you for dinner," she said shakily. "And the music. It was wonderful."

"You are welcome," he replied simply. Christine looked down at the cold hand with long, boney fingers that were slightly gnarled and calloused. The index finger was gently thumping at her shoulder strap.

"Mr. Y?" she said. The hand dropped to his side as if it was burnt.

"Of course," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Of course."

"Good night then." She made her way towards the door.

"Christine!" she turned around. The masked man was staring at the place she was just sitting in. The indent of her body was still there. "You will- you will come back, won't you?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course I will," she replied after a moment. With a wave of her hand, Mr. Squelch escorted her outside and shut the dining room door, leaving Mr. Y all alone. He turned slowly around, his eyes glancing at the violin. He walked over to it and picked it up in his arms as if cradling a child.

The fact that she let him touch her! Even his own mother would not condone such a thing.

"_Oh…Christine….Christine, Christine,"_ he said joyfully. "_S__he__ did not die when I touched her! And she will come back, she promised me! The angel will come back to her Erik!" _Of course, he would have to be more careful around her the next time. The way she looked tonight, her hair, her lilting voice- it almost made him lose control. But he would not take liberties with the girl...she was still too fragile, the poor dear, as evidenced by the way she reacted to his music.

His music...her face was one that he would cherish forever. It would be their secret language. He imagined playing the most beautiful melodies for her while they both swooned in delight and fiery passion...oh what a sight to behold!

He stroked the violin as if caressing a loved one. "_Come, my lovely. We must polish you up for your next performance. This time, however, I think it is to be in a more_ public_ place_….."

Mr. Y- Erik- the owner of Phantasma on Coney Island, was so caught up in his happiness that he did not hear the lie in Christine's voice when she said she would come back.

Because, in a few words, she had no desire to see the man again.


	8. Chapter 7

Somewhere on the Coney Island Boardwalk's most dingy bar, Meg Giry, the former Ooh-La-La Girl, sat on a small wooden bar stool nursing a tequila sunrise in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A pop-rock song from the nineties was blaring from the jukebox with all the drunken men and their girlfriends in mini-skirts attempting to slur along to the words. In the dark, smoky atmosphere that smelled faintly of a combination of vodka, pickles, cheap perfume and body odor, no one could see the tears in Meg's eyes as she observed the sloppiness that was going on around her.

"Pour me another," she said, slamming her glass down in front of the bartender. The portly gentleman continued wiping his rather slimy glass with his rag, ignoring the girl.

"Hey! Fatso! I said, get me another drink!" she repeated angrily, taking her glass and tapping it on the bartender's head. The outburst finally caught the bartender's attention, angrily swatting away the glass on his head.

"Haven't you had enough tonight? You're only twenty," the man growled. "I could go to jail for even having you in here."

"So what?" she snapped drunkenly. "I'd be better off in jail with cockroaches coming out of the toilet then being on this stupid island anymore." Meg took a puff from her cigarette and slowly blew a perfect smoke ring in the bartender's face. "Now, if you'd be so kind, _sir_, get me a beer."

"Look, kid, I've had a long night. I've already had to throw out ten other slutty drunks, and I'm in no mood to deal with another. Now beat it and go home."

"Hey, hey, hey," a voice said. Meg turned around and saw, to her surprise, a rather clean-cut young man pulling up a stool next to her. He clucked his tongue at the bartender. "That's no way to treat a lady, Mick."

"Well, bully for her," the bartender sneered. "She shouldn't have called me fat."

"Well, then, this should make you happy," the young man said, pushing what looked like a fifty dollar bill. "A beer and the usual for me, Mick. Make it snappy." He turned towards Meg, leaving the bartender spluttering as he inconspicuously put the fifty dollars in his pocket. "Sorry about that. Mick's self conscious about his weight."

"Maybe if he got off his fat ass once in awhile to do his job, that wouldn't be a problem," Meg muttered. She fiddled with her straw. "And thanks for the drink," she added grudgingly.

"No problem," he said. Meg couldn't help but notice in her drunken haze that her mysterious man had a beautiful smile and really nice hair. She tried focusing her beady eyes on him through her fogginess. "Wait. I know you. You're that fire breather sometimes that-that works at Phantasma. Your name's something like a two girl's, right? Lindsey Jordan?"

"Jordan Lindsey."

"You're the guy that's always hanging around that little brat Christine Daae." Jordan's smile vanished. "Little miss perfect Daae with her stupid dance moves."

"Don't call her stupid."

"Why?" Meg mocked. "Are you _in love_ with her? Hoping to score with her?" she sniggered into her empty glass. "You're just like everyone else- she's so _beautiful_, so _angelic_.Please."

Jordan didn't answer. At that point, the drinks appeared in front of them. Meg grabbed her beer and chugged it down. Wiping the back of her hand on her beer, she continued her rant. "Well, you can have her. Her and her little innocence. She's so SLOW. She's probably a-"

"You've had enough," Jordan said quietly.

"Yes! Yes! You're absolutely right!" Meg exclaimed, turning next to him. She slung her arm around Jordan's shoulder, slouching down in Jordan's chest. She coughed a bit into his chest. "I've had enough of being the "Ooh-La-La Girl." It makes me sound like some sort of bimbo."

"But you're not-"

"I didn't even _want _to dance," Meg said, not hearing a word of Jordan's protests. "It was all because of my mother. Just because _she _wanted to sleep with Mr. Y and _she _wanted to be the head of Phantasma, and _she failed _at being a dancer….why don't people like me, Jordan? Why can't they all like me like they like Christine? I just want to be loved. That's all. Even my own mother hates me. Why? I'm doing everything she's asked me- _made _me- do." She hastily wiped away a tear that was slowly trailing down her cheek as she looked pathetically at Jordan, waiting for an answer that he could not give.

Jordan was a little embarrassed and uncomfortable with the poor Ooh-La-La Girl slobbering all over him, but he could see behind the anger and the vodka her terrible sadness and heartache. It of course did not excuse the fact that she was a jerk, but he could now understand why she was one.

It made him sick.

Looking down at the girl, Jordan felt a jolt of surprise when he saw the sadness in her eyes eclipsing into something else. "You know," Meg said, batting her eyelids languidly. "You seem like a nice guy, Jordan." Her hand slid down his chest. "A nice guy indeed…."

"You're drunk," Jordan said. He hastily stopped her hand from going any further down his shirt.

"Don't you hit me!" She threw back her fist and went to punch Jordan, but ended up just sliding down on her stool and onto the floor in a heap. Jordan leaped down off his stool and frantically pulled her up over his shoulder. The people around them made no move to help out, but only pointed at her and laughed.

"Keep the change, Mick," he called to the bartender over the laughter. "You won't be seeing my face for awhile."

And the pair left without another word.

~0~

The following morning, Jordan received a message from Christine Daae asking if they could possibly have a lunch date after his work shift. Jordan immediately responded, and three hours later, they found themselves sitting on the employee's patio underneath a giant yellow umbrella overlooking the beach with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, hummus, carrots, strawberries, and much to Christine's puzzlement, figs.

"Poor Meg," Christine said, shaking her head. Jordan had just finished telling his story about the encounter with Meg at the bar.

"I'll say," Jordan replied. "Thank God she only lives a few blocks off the Boardwalk. I barely got her to her house in time before she started throwing up into the bushes."

"Bet Madame Giry loved that."

"The woman didn't even care that her daughter was vomiting on the doorstep. She only screamed at her for breaking her curfew. I mean, at least help the kid inside. She was in bad shape when I left."

"Did she even thank you?"

"A brief 'thanks' was muttered, but that's about it. Coming from Madame Giry, though, I was surprised she even said something." Jordan popped a carrot into his mouth and munched on it thoughtfully.

"That was great of you to do that," Christine said.

"I couldn't just stand by. Meg Giry may be a lot of things, but she doesn't deserve to be left on the floor in some disgusting hole." He gave a short sigh, then brightened. "So, tell me about your night! Did you end up going on the date?"

Christine's insides writhed at the mention of the dinner with Mr. Y. "It wasn't a date, it was just dinner."

"Dinner with your boss? Sounds like a date. So what was he like? What did you do?"

"Jordan-"

"Wait, did you do more than eat?"

"Let's not-"

"You didn't sleep with him, did you?"

"_Jordan!_" Christine cried out. "Stop it. Please." Jordan immediately turned his teasing smile into a look of concern. "It- it was fine. But I just don't want to talk about it."

"Christine, I'm sorry I teased you."

"It's fine."

"No, really I am." The firm tone in Jordan's voice startled Christine. "But you make me wonder. What happened?"

"Honestly, nothing." She saw the look in his face and tried another approach. "It wasn't anything bad. The dinner was great and he played music for me."

"Mr. Y plays music?"

"Yes. Jordan, it was the most beautiful music I have ever heard in my life." Her voice trailed off as she recalled how he played his violin, his arms thrusting the bow over the strings, the melody rich with notes and harmonies. Beyond her, the ocean was gleaming. "He plays with such…such _passion_. Like he loves music itself. It was unlike anything I've ever seen. The closest I've seen anyone play like that was my father." She brought herself back to reality, breaking her train of thought. "But after the music….it was the way he _looked _at me. His eyes held almost an- _obsessive _sort of look."

"It's obvious you're scared of him."

"A little," she confessed. "He _is _intimidating, after all."

"Don't I know it," Jordan replied.

"He asked me if I would come back and I said yes."

"And are you?"

"No," she said hastily. "No, I can't. It hurts too much." But in the back of her mind, her words sounded false. Of course, she promised herself last night that she would never see the man again, but the music was haunting her. It was as if she needed to hear it again, to make sure she had actually seen and heard this man play with her own ears. How was it possible that she could want to hear the music, but be frightened of the player?

Jordan took a bite of a fig, his face scrunching up in disgust. "These things are disgusting. We're never eating them again."

"I didn't want to eat them in the first place," Christine said, laughing a bit. "Aunt Meredith won't have them in the house."

"Speaking of which, how did your aunt respond to all this?"

"She was asleep by the time I got back. She left a note saying she's ordering pizza for us tonight, but I bet it's just a diversion to discuss the date. Feel free to stop by if you'd like." Christine wiped her hands on her jeans and checked her watch. "I better get going, the next show's in twenty minutes."

"Who's watch is that?" Jordan asked, collecting the extra napkins and plates to throw away. "It looks antique."

"It belonged to Dad." Balancing both the hummus jar and some utensils in one hand, she stuck her other wrist out so Jordan could get a better look. "It was one of his favorite things, besides his violin. I remember when I was a kid, he would let me wind it up for him -"

"Excuse me."

Christine and Jordan whirled around. There, clad in a skin tight black dress to match her gaudy rings, stood Madame Giry, her index finger tapping away at her hand impatiently.

"Fascinating though your childhood is, Miss Daae," she drawled. "It is not enough for me to excuse your lateness."

Jordan turned to Christine. "I thought your call was ten minutes before curtain?"

"You don't pay attention to much, do you, Mr. Lindsey, or are you truly as dense as you come off as," Madame Giry said. Jordan scowled.

"Oh, how quickly she forgets," he muttered to Christine. "What did I tell you?"

"Miss Daae should have looked at the callboard this morning," Madame Giry continued. "And no one, not even our new _star-" _sh_e_ sneered the word here, "is exempt from laziness."

Christine paused in her cleaning, the hummus jar teetering dangerously back and forth. "Excuse me, Madame," she said. "Did you just say _new star?_"

"Again, if you had read the callboard earlier, you would know." Christine flushed and the old dance instructor's eyes narrowed. "But yes. As of today, you are now Phantasma's new Ooh-La-La Girl. So I recommend that you get into costume at once so you don't make a fool of yourself."

Christine dropped the jar.

"But-but-Madame!" she said weakly. "I can't do the routine- surely there are other girls more suited for the position-"

"Not according to Mr. Y," Madame Giry replied, cutting Christine off. "Obviously he is impressed with your dancing and feels your _deserve _this wholeheartedly. Though if it were up to me, you would be out of a job with what happened between you and my daughter."

Christine stiffened. "I'm sorry, Madame Giry," she said through gritted teeth. "Truly I am. I didn't mean for things to get out of hand. I-I just-"

"Not another word, Miss Daae," said Madame Giry in a deadly tone.

"But-"

"Not one peep! Now, I expect you to follow me and-"

But what else she wanted Christine to do was never found out, for at that moment, a young boy who Christine knew worked as a stage hand came barreling towards them, his curly red hair flying.

"Jordan! Christine! Madame Giry!" he cried, skidding to a halt in front of them. He leaned down, putting his hands on his knees and breathed deeply.

"What is it now, James?" Madame Giry said. "I told the stage manager that the costumes were already distributed."

"It's-_not-that_," the boy gasped. "It's something else!"

"Take it easy. What is it?" Jordan asked, thumping him on the back. James looked up at the three and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Not to interfere," he panted. " But it's Mr. Y. He's giving a speech in five minutes in front of the roller coaster and wants everyone there or, according to him, it's my head."

"A meeting?" Christine repeated. "About what?"

"The new layout for Phantasma," James answered. "Apparently there's going to be some changes that will be put into effect. No one really knows for sure. The only thing that's certain is-"

He was interuppted by Madame Giry's splutterings. "But- but _the shows_! The dancers? My Meg's job?"

"You mean Christine's new job?" Jordan muttered. The dance instructor ignored him. James looked over at her.

"Madame Giry, what I was going to say was he also announced that the rest of the shows are cancelled for the season. Didn't you read the callboard this morning?"


End file.
